*Disclaimer: I don't own Jill or any references to the game Resident Evil. This may not be a story for any hardcore RE fans. I simply wanted to tell an erotic tale that took place after the events of RE5 and this is what came out. Please don't send me any angry messages saying "she would never do..." or whatever. Oh, and I know that there are bound to be spelling and grammer issues. My spell checker is on the fritz so I had to edit this on my own. Anyway, that being said I hope everyone enjoys this one. Any constructive critisism would be highly appreciated.*
"Jill's Journal: unknown date. It's been thirteen days since I escaped the horrors of Africa thanks to..." her lips hung onto the name for a moment, "Chris."
A rickety, once beige jeep kicked up clouds of dust that where as thick as fog on a chill wet, morning. It creaked and groaned, complaining of years of hard-worn abuse as it traveled once more over a dirt road somewhere on the fringes of society.
"It's been nearly thirteen days since I've been on the run. On the run from everything I did, from what I became in that hell. From what Wesker made me do and what he turned me into. He got what he deserved, though. That much brings me a little comfort. I've all but forgotten those days, hell... those months as his puppet, like waking from a dream. Or a nightmare."
Night was falling across the sparsely decorated plains of eastern Europe, blowing cool winds over of the sun-parched land. On the horizon thick, near-black clouds loomed with the promise of relief from the drought.
"I don't know where I am anymore. And, I don't care either. I'm looking to put as much distance between me and my past as I can. With what little money I have I'll start anew. I found my old clothes in a locker. Evidently, Wesker was more sentimental than I gave him credit. It's nice to be out of that suit and back into a loose skirt and a tight top."
The soles of her knee-high boots stepped down hard on the gas peddle. The rickety, old jeep bounced its way over a stone bridge just in time for sundown. It was a small town, former soviety judging by the architecture. Its streets where mostly dirt or cobblestone in some areas, and dirty to say the least. The jeep came to a stop in front of a large, grey building with neon lights screaming something in Russian. Three of six letters were not functional. One of the locals stumbled out and vomited onto a pathetic bush. If this was proof of a society that had never known the T-virus, or Las Plagas, she was not impressed. Still, here in the middle of nowhere, in the desolate slum she would try to begin anew. The first step would be a stiff drink.
"I have a few hundred American dollars to get me through the next week or two. If my luck holds up by then I might be able to make contact with the BSAA. Wesker may be gone, but something tells me that I'm not out of this yet. I'll report back at the same time tomorrow. Jill out."
Jill stepped out of the jeep. It sizzled and popped from the long ride. She strode up confidently to the tavern door, already smelling booze and human filth from inside. After a reassuring breath she pushed the door open and slipped into the dim-lit room. For a moment the crowd hushed and all eyes turned to her. A chill ran down her spine and a cold sweat broke out across her forehead. For a moment she felt like prey once more, like being back amongst the living dead. Then, slowly attention returned to boisterous laughter, and loud talking. All in all, this place was actually not completely repulsive. Especially after she had gotten used to the smell.
Making her way to the bar, Jill placed an American twenty dollar bill down on the county and asked for, "Whiskey." Her voice as raspier than she thought, parched from the dry heat. The bartender gave her a once over from beneath bushy, grayish-black eyebrows and produced a small glace of the amber liquid. She opened her mouth and swallowed, feeling the warm burn of alcohol against the back of her throat. "Another," she said, not caring if the portly old man understood.
A moment later her glass was a quarter full, and there was a man leaning beside her, his back to the bartender. Jill gave him a glance from her peripheral vision, sizing him up instantly: Five-foot-nine, maybe 160 pounds, light skin, probably late twenties to early thirties. He wore faded jeans and an old dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons undone. "Hello," he said in a thickly-accented English. "My name is Geoffrey, though my friends call me Jeff." The bartender brought him a drink without being asked. Evidently this man was a regular. No surprise there. As far as Jill could tell this was the only pub in town.
"Hi," she said back, with the barest hint of a smile.
"You're an American, right? All American women are so lovely." He was doing a lame job of sweet talking her, yet it was working. Part of her needed this. Fighting for survival on a day to day bases has a way of dehumanizing a person. Real, honest human interaction was just what the doctor ordered. So, she played a long.
"Yes, that's right."
Grinning, he took a drink from his glass, a black liquid she could not identify. "Great, yes! What your name?"
"J-Jill..." she replied, stumbling over her own name just a little. It felt unfamiliar, like maybe it belonged to some other girl and she was just borrowing it for the night.
Geoffrey laughed like a child figuring out one of life's little mysteries. "Aha, yes, good, Jill," he pronounced it with a long 'j' sound. "You new in town, yes?"
Jill had to stifle a small laugh. Was he for real? "Yes, that's right." She said before taking another long drink from her whiskey. After finishing the second round she still wasn't feeling anything, so she held up her hand for another. Wesker had made her stronger, that was for sure. Her body was hard and firm where it needed to be, while maintaining its curves. She had been experimented on for so long that she has lost all recollection of time. One of the side effects was a greater tolerance to alcohol, it seemed.